


Little Boy Blue

by Tashilover



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Postpartum Depression, Stolen baby, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 23:37:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tashilover/pseuds/Tashilover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Douglas never knew his first son.</p><p>Based off a prompt in the CP kink meme</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Boy Blue

On some level, Douglas couldn't blame her for leaving.

Their encounter, after all, was just a drunken romp. Theirs was not a romance, not even after they sobered and realized what they had done. She didn't like him because he was just a kid, a stupid eighteen year old in his first university year. He had no job, no money to support her or the baby. He barely knew what he wanted to study, let alone knewif he was ready to be a father or not.

She was twenty-five, a near graduate, had dreams of going to France, finding a rich man and marry him. Now she was stuck with a kid she didn't want, with a father she didn't trust. And for the next nine months, they bickered and yelled and said so many nasty things. He lost the count how many times he called her whore.

However, Douglas could not deny that with every passing month, her belly grew. He would lie awake at night, imagining tiny fingers, tiny toes, quiet giggles and mewling cries. He wondered if it would be a girl, or a boy, wondered what name he should give it.

He didn't like her, but he loved the fetus growing inside of her. He never knew he could love something he had never met. Never looked forward to a day more in his life.

Despite what the mother thought of him, he wasn't going to run away.

He didn't think she would, though.

 

 

Postpartum depression, they said was the cause. She just panicked and ran.

Douglas tried not to blame her. There was no way he could understand what was going through her mind, what she felt and what ultimately forced her to make that decision. But every time he thought back, and remembered holding his son for the first and only time, all he could feel towards her was anger.

He remembered kissing those tiny, tiny fingers and being in awe of those tiny nails. He remembered how his son yawned, his mouth opening so wide to reveal pink gums and tongue. He remembered the way his boy's tiny hand curled around his finger and refused to let go.

Douglas also remembered how the mother refused to look at him the whole time he was there.

They didn't find the bodies, hers or his son's. The police considered that as a good sign, as it meant there was still hope they were out there somewhere. They asked for Douglas' DNA to help identify the baby if they ever do come across him, and for any distinctive markings.

"He has three moles on his back," Douglas said to them. "Like Orion's belt."

For the first year, every time he read in the paper of a baby being abadoned, he would call the police to see if it was his son. By the second year, Douglas kept checking in with local orphanages, asking if any of their kids fit in with his son's description.

By the third year, family began to tell him it was unlikely he would ever see the boy again.

It took much, much longer for Douglas to finally accept that. Nearly fifteen years longer. And on that day when his resolve finally broke and he knew in his heart his son was forever lost to him, Douglas took the only picture of his boy, a ultrasound photo, and burned it.

He took the ashes, not even a handful, placed them in a small box and buried them in his garden.

 

 

 

"Air conditioning," Martin moaned as he entered the hotel room. "Please tell me our room has air conditioning..."

"Over there," Douglas said, tossing down his overnight bag onto his bed. He pointed to the air machine near the window. "Looks old, though."

"Oh God," Martin moaned. He staggered over, showing Douglas his back. His t-shirt clung to his skin, soaking wet with sweat. Martin fiddled with the machine for a few seconds and-

PSSSSSSHHHHINK!

Cold air blasted into the room. "Oh, thank you," Martin moaned into the heavens.

"Move away," Douglas complained. "I would like some air, too, you know."

"Give me a moment, will you? You're the one who said I looked like a ripe tomato baking in the sun."

"I did and you do."

"Right, just give me a minute, okay?" Martin sighed in relief. "Hey, can you pass me a clean shirt? I think I need to burn mine."

Douglas rolled his eyes, though mentally agreed with him. The feel of wet clothe pressed against his skin was unpleasant. Douglas opened Martin's duffle bag, grabbed the first shirt he saw and tossed it over.

"Thanks," Martin muttered. With heavy arms, he unbuttoned his soiled shirt, grimacing at the noise it made when he peeled it off himself.

That was when Douglas saw the three little moles on Martin's lower back.

He dropped his own shirt in shock.

Martin slipped on his new shirt, humming in satisfaction. He turned around and saw the expression on Douglas' face. "Douglas, are you all right? You're not suffering from heatstroke, are you?"

Douglas couldn't speak. His throat was too thick. Tears prickeled at his eyes.

It couldn't be, it can't be. It was too much of a coincidence, it was too long. There was no way in hell-

"Douglas!" Martin said in alarm. He gripped at Douglas' arm, shaking him. "Are you okay? Come in front of the air conditioning. Sit down. Do you need water? I'll get you some water."

Martin disappeared into the bathroom. Douglas put his face in his hands.

He had long given up hope that he'll ever find his son again. He thought of him dead.

Martin came back with a hotel paper cup full of water. "Here, drink this."

Douglas reached out and grasped Martin's wrist. "Martin, what's your mother's name?"

"What? Why do you need to know?"

"Please, humor me."

Martin pulled a face, unsure. Hesitantly, he said, "Mariam Crieff."

It was not the name of the girl Douglas knew back at uni. Of course, she could have changed her name. "Do you have a picture?"

"No. I don't carry around pictures of my mum, I'm socially awkward enough as is. Why? What's going on?"

Should he just tell him? 'Martin, I think I'm your father'? Based on what evidence, besides three moles  _anybody_ could have? Martin's face, neck, and shoulders were dotted in freckles, those birth marks on his back meant nothing.

Douglas peered up at Martin. Now that he looked, really looked, he could see the resemblance of the girl he knew long enough. The same eyes, the same shapely face.

"Douglas?" Martin was really worried now. "Are you okay? Please, talk to me."

It still wasn't enough. He can't put that type of burden on Martin until Douglas was sure, completely one hundred percent sure. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. "I'm fine," he croaked. "You're right, I fear I am suffering from heat stroke." He quickly drained the cup of water Martin handed to him. He raised the cup back up. "Could you get me some more, please?"

"Oh my god, of course, Douglas!" Martin scrambled to the bathroom. "I'm so sorry for hogging the air conditioning."

Douglas bowed his head, willing himself not to cry. When he reopened them, he noticed a strand of red hair on the ground.

He bent down, picked up the strand, placed it in the folds of the handkerchief he always had on hand and tucked it away.

 

 

 

The test results were in.

He had to sign a form before the official envelope was handed over and he barely looked at it, scribbling at what he thought were his initials. He gave the postman a quick thank-you before dashing back into his house, ripping the envelope open.

The first part of the results listed all the medical mumbo-jumbo, describing the levels of whatever-whatever. He briefly scanned through it all, his eyes darting down to the bottom where he was sure it would all be laid out for him.

He read the official bottom line.

Douglas dropped his arm and looked up to the ceiling. He squeezed his eyes shut, gritted his teeth, determined to hold it together. He cupped his face suddenly and screamed into his hands.

**DNA does NOT match**.

Over three decades he'd thought his son dead, gone forever. When he saw Martin's back, hope he had not felt in years sprung up, making him believe in things he wished he didn't believe in before.

Douglas had spent the last three weeks believing Martin was his son, sighing in great relief the baby was not tossed into a trashbin and forgotten. Relieved to know he had a decent life, following his dream and was happy. Douglas thought he was given another chance.

His heart was breaking all over again.

Douglas sunk to the floor, great giant sobs wracking his body. Every time he felt like screaming he bit his knuckle to muffle the noise.

His son was dead again. And this time, he had no picture to bury.

 

 

 

"Good Morning, Douglas," Martin said as he entered the portacabin.

"Morning," Douglas mumbled back, unable to give anything more than that. He was too drained to care.

Martin frowned at the disheveled sight of him. "Are you alright? You seem... unwell."

"I'm..." he didn't dare say fine. He couldn't bring himself to say such a thing. "Still recovering from the after-effects of the flu."

"Ooooooh," Martin said, understanding. "Yeah, I know how that feels. I remember the first time I came down with the flu. My dad spent the whole night with me, rubbing my back as I laid sick in the bathroom. Ugh, that was horrible."

The mentioning of his father had Douglas turning his head towards him. "Your father," he began slowly. "Was he a good man?"

"Of course he was!" Martin said, sounding offended. "Look, I know I kind of painted him as this ogre who didn't support my dream, but he was a good man. A good  _father._ I would ask for no other."

Douglas grinned sadly. "I'm glad," he said.


End file.
